Untitled II

I hate poetry. It’s all uniform and organized by lines. Poetry has no life and maybe if we all donate a penny we can buy it one. I hate how my pen always runs out when I write poetry. I hate how little scraps of paper live under my bed and at night they call out “finish me, finish me!” Not even this poem can tell you how much I hate it, because I’m about to add it to my treasure box of poems.

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